His Professor
by Ariel Riddle
Summary: "Go away, Riddle," her tone brokers no room for argument as if she's used to barking out orders, "school boys do what they're told, don't they?" The smirk tugging on her lips whispers of all things wicked and a battle storms inside his chest... He can kill her another time, he decides. Right now, he wants to kiss her. Tomione. Two-shot.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Happy Tomione Day May 2018 everybody! Here is my other contribution for my OTP. I wrote this and one more. This will be a two-shot, and the second chapter is coming shortly. I promise to get back to my WIP's soon! If you would like to see art for this fic it's on my Pinterest arielriddlefanfiction and do check out the Tomione tag on Tumblr if you haven't already today-it's overflowing with tomione awesomeness and so many good stories. I made a fic rec list and added all the new stories I'm following too. Check them out if you like! And that wraps up my contributions for Tomione Day this round. Hope you enjoy Xx**

 **Beta love to the wonderful Elle Morgan-Black who totally scooped this up last minute and gave me a bad ass beta. Thank you!**

 **Disclaimer: All canon characters, plots, and situations from the Harry Potter universe belong to JK Rowling. I am not profiting from this writing.**

 **Warnings: I'm all about forbidden relationships and this one is student/professor. Everyone is of age though. Also Tom is a bit of a sociopath. Hopefully that surprises no one...**

* * *

When he first sees her, she's leaning against Professor Merrythought's desk, arms folded across her charcoal blouse. Her gaze sweeps the room with an air of confidence that seems misplaced in one so young.

He hears them whisper… Atticus, Cassius, Abraxas… he hears them discuss what little they've heard in regards to the newest Defense teacher. He hears their intrigue shift seamlessly to outright leering as they assess her more visible attributes. But they don't dwell on it long before the topic of her blood status is brought up. Now it's a full on debate on whether she's a Muggleborn or not.

"Granger? Who's ever heard of Granger?" Atticus asks with an edge of distaste laced in his voice.

Tom sighs and discreetly arranges his belongings on his desk. "Was there not a famous Potioneer with that name?" He glances at his followers. "Dagworth-Granger, I believe?"

Atticus perks up at Tom's apparent interest and takes the opportunity to unload all the information he knows on the man. It's sensory overload and Tom doesn't even care. Still, he's glad to have collected Atticus Black—access to his family library alone made the endeavor worth it.

His Knights drone on and he loses interest.

He sits down quietly in his seat and tries to get a read on the new professor for himself. He simply must impress her. Every teacher is enamored with him, save Dumbledore. He successfully bites back the irritation he feels thanks to seeing that Professor Merrythought's retirement happened earlier than he's been led to believe it would. Apparently the Slug Club meeting the year prior had not been as enlightening as he thought. Tom had imagined the old bat would hold out longer than this, giving him the opportunity to pursue the position.

The post being filled much earlier than expected is unfortunate.

"She can't be much older than twenty," Cassius murmurs in a tone low enough for only Tom and his followers to hear. "How can she be a master duellist at that age?"

How, indeed? Tom's curiosity is piqued.

"At least she's rather easy on the eyes," Abraxas whispers as he studies the witch with interest. "Dirty blood or not."

Even Tom quirks his lips at this, admiring the curve of her arse in the smart pencil skirt she wears. The blouse and knee-length skirt conceal much from his roving gaze, but the little he can see is darkened by the sun and glistening golden. Her chestnut curls are pinned away from her face but still a few renegade locks escape, framing her face becomingly. He can just barely make out a thin scar lightly grazing her neck which gives him pause. Perhaps Cassius is off the mark in regards to her duelling ability. Witches can heal most any scars. So either she wants it there, or she has been attacked by dark magic. Long lashes frame vivacious brown eyes, coffee colored irises with so much depth he for a moment wonders if she _can_ be older than they all originally peg her for.

She is pretty in an understated sort of way Tom can't exactly explain—it isn't conventional. There is something distinctly menacing about the power that clings to her, he can sense it hovering just barely above the surface. He resists the urge to lurch forward as if drawn to her by some unseen energy. When her perusal of the class continues and her stare collides with his, he's struck by how much knowledge— how much intellect— he senses lurking in her stormy gaze.

He wonders how those very same eyes would look staring up at him, open and lifeless.

He reins in a snort. Pretty? He runs his tongue over his teeth as if to rid himself of a foul taste. What a fanciful notion for him to entertain. Yes, he supposes she is rather intellectual and even he senses the power that floats around her protectively. Clearly she's special if Dippet would risk hiring someone of impure blood to teach them Defense with the current political climate what it is. To overcome a possibly troublesome heritage and the issue of her youth in order to obtain such a valued position at Hogwarts is indication enough that she's a force to be reckoned with.

He still has to kill her.

He doubts there's a way around it. Tom needs the Defense position to sort out the best and most powerful candidates he can find. The position will serve as a fine recruiting tool. He admits she's interesting, but it's sadly unavoidable.

Letting his lips curl in an earnest smile that normally charms the witches senseless, he turns his full attention on Professor Granger, determined to make a lasting impression as she opens her first class.

* * *

Irritation flares in his chest as he heads to Defense, nearly running down a Ravenclaw fifth year.

"Excuse me—."

But her retort dies as she sees just who she's run into.

"Oh, Tom," she gushes, and Tom internally cringes at the familiar use of his first name. "I'm so glad to see you. How was your summer?"

Tom wants to throttle her. Instead he forces the necessary words from his mouth and injects his tone with false pleasantness, hoping the witch takes the hint and leaves. It is a fine line between friendly and aloof but Tom navigates it excellently.

Unfortunately the student— Olive Hornby, he remembers— doesn't take the hint.

Instead, she closes the gap between them and presses against him, trailing an errant finger up his arm and to his bicep. Can she be more subtle? A muscle twitches by his temple as he swallows down his revulsion. The witch drones on, something about Tom tutoring her in private, as if the Ravenclaws don't have an abundance of students suitable for the job. Tom grits his teeth and bears the physical contact, all the while envisioning different torture scenarios he can force upon the foolish girl.

"Gee, Olive. I don't know. I'm awfully busy, you know with my new Head Boy duties and all."

A herd of Hufflepuffs exit out of the Defense classroom and he stares longingly at the entrance, thinking now would be the perfect time to scrutinize that annoyingly difficult to read witch who is now somehow his Defense professor. Sure she had praised his technique during the last class and awarded points generously, but her face had been a rather impenetrable mask of impassiveness and that simply doesn't do.

The simpering witch who seems to possess not an ounce of self-preservation blushes and twists her shoulders in a shrug as she giggles. She gives him a half-arsed complaint, something about the new professor assigning them way too much homework. Tom smirks at this, reluctantly agreeing, but not at all bothered by the increase in workload. He is all too aware of Olive's curves as she brushes against him again, signaling exactly what she wants to do with Tom if she were to get him alone.

The passing Hufflepuffs twist a wand pattern in the air, and he squints to catch the movement. He's startled when he registers the spell as the Patronus Charm. The irritation he feels intensifies. He has never been taught this charm the current fifth years are learning, and he's a seventh year. Jealousy flares in his chest at the discovery of others having knowledge over him.

Channeling his anger, his impassive stare on Olive turns predatory and her eyes go wide. Pureblood witches do have their uses after all, Tom muses even as his eyes rake her figure. The girl has blossomed over summer. When his eyes scan back to her face he tries not to wince. She's so desperate it's disgusting. He doesn't want to see her ridiculous face, but he does have needs to consider. He could always flip her on her stomach and pound into her senselessly. Pureblood princesses were all too accommodating, happy to experiment before their impending marriage contracts reached fruition, he'd discovered.

"Sure, Olive," he croons, friendly smirk turning sinister. "What sort of Head Boy would I be if I didn't make time for witches in need?"

She gulps and her lashes flutter. Tom wonders if she'll back out. She doesn't, proving she's as stupid as he's originally taken her for. "Thanks, Tom," she stutters, backing away. "See you soon, Tom."

Tom spins on his heal and enters the class, neglecting to spare Olive another passing thought.

Remembering himself and reeling in his quickly splintering temper, he slips stealthily into the classroom and stops short when he discovers Professor Granger hunched over a Ravenclaw boy, hand placed on his shoulder, appearing to be comforting the fifth year. Tom strains to hear her hushed words over the distance of the room.

"...Only takes practice and a strong happy thought to hold onto, one that fills you with joy," she's saying, smiling warmly at him. "It's hard to produce much of anything your first attempt."

Tom bites back a snort. Pathetic!

"And I don't think I've met anyone who's cast their corporeal Patronus on their first try. Just keep practicing, and you'll get it. I promise you will."

He would have discreetly eavesdropped some more if it wasn't for the sudden onslaught of seventh year students pouring into the room. Professor Granger's sharp eyes snap up, catching him watching her. Dueller instincts indeed. He feigns nonchalance as he unpacks his school supplies and says the appropriate greetings to his fellow classmates.

If he doesn't torture someone soon, he'll tear his hair out. He glances at his Knights. Perhaps he'll call a meeting. He needs an outlet to vent his frustrations.

The class begins and the professor reviews what they learned the week prior. Tom picks and chooses when to raise his hand, wanting to appear humble but still showcase his superior knowledge. She calls on him and he has to remind her what his name is. He politely informs her and with a friendly smile on his face he answers her question. She awards points but there is no awe or fondness flicking through her eyes as he hopes there'll be. What's wrong with the witch? Usually teachers are fawning all over him at this point.

Tom tries not to frown.

When Professor Granger clears the desks and summons a training dummy to line the end of the room Tom feels a flicker of excitement. He can surely impress the teacher now. She explains she wants them to go over the Defense spells they've learned in previous years. Each student is given a random spell of her selection to gauge their ability.

He performs the Expelliarmus flawlessly—it's one of the first he's learned. She praises his technique and awards more points to Slytherin, but after searching her expression he's displeased to note an absence of surprise or shock or pride like teachers usually have for him. He silently curses Olive and the disruption of having to deal with her instead of being able to have a one on one with Professor Granger like he intended. Of course there would have been that fifth year boy to deal with. Jealousy flares again when he recalls the way in which she encourages the student. He wants to be in that position. He wants that warm attention directed on him, if only to see what he can glean from it—ever the opportunist that he is.

He would still kill her, of course.

There's no way around it. Waiting for someone so young— the jury is still out on just how young— to retire is out of the question.

But first, he simply must get her to teach him that spell— the Patronus Charm. A rather nifty spell to know, should one ever encounter a stray Dementor or Lethifold. Tom was not one to let knowledge go to waste.

* * *

She opens the class on Thursday morning and he thinks he's prepared for whatever she's going to throw at them.

He's not.

"Today we'll be focusing on ways to strengthen your defense skills," she announces, and Tom discards his malicious thoughts, eager to hear what she'll say next. "I trust you've started incorporating other branches of magic in your duelling regiment?" She pauses and Tom's hand shoots up. "Yes, Mr Riddle?"

"Professor Merrythought introduced several Charms that can be used in duelling," he hazards carefully, trying not to frown as he remembers the fifth years practicing their Patronus Charms in the courtyard. "But we unfortunately didn't get very far." He smiles sheepishly at her, as if he is embarrassed to say.

"I see," she flicks her wand and a list of Charms appear on the blackboard. The sound of quills scratching over parchment can be heard permeating the air and Tom hastens to join them. "It's not only charms you should consider, but tracing Rune patterns to fortify your shields and considering Transfiguration. Trust me," she smirks conspiratorially at them, "I've seen the tactic used firsthand and it can be a gamechanger in life or death situations."

Tom is riveted. His first theory about Professor Granger being more than she appears strengthens. She has been in fights and she has duelled. Like her life depended on it, apparently. She's sensational. A strange feeling of _want_ coils in his chest, reminding him of his basilisk catching the scent of prey and preparing to strike.

Her death will have to be delayed even longer than he initially thought. He still needs to kill her, but he needs to convince her to train him first. Get her to show him everything she knows and not leave anything out.

He can be very persuasive where witches are concerned, and this professor was after all, still a witch.

* * *

It starts with a debate.

Tom stays after class to go over his essay and her resulting comments. Not a flicker of emotion can be seen on his face and no one can guess at the storm raging just barely beneath the surface. He is rattled. More rattled than he should be.

"I don't see what the issue is," Professor Granger says crossing her arms. "You put in the work and stated your case. The grade is fair."

"It's not about the grade," he explains as he calls upon all his patience, "It's about your comments on my runic shield selection. You don't agree it's the strongest choice." The accusation lingers in the air between them. "I don't understand why. Fortifying my Defense shield with the algiz rune of protection _is_ the strongest option in the Elder Futhark."

"That's debatable." Her expression becomes pensive. "It depends on many factors varying between the technique of the rune pattern to the strength of the original _Protego_ to the magical ability of the spellcaster themselves, but I digress— I not only wanted your choice to be made on strength alone, I also asked for unusual and vastly unexplored runic shield combinations, not the one everyone knows and most people use, which is a chief reason for choosing another—because your opponent will likely recognize the pattern and correctly deduce how to counteract it."

Tom wants to interrupt and tell the witch that he doubts anyone will know how to counteract the rune's power, as runic shielding is clearly not as commonplace as she assumes. He stops himself, however, in favor of watching her face light up as she speaks, her mask of disinterest falling with the same speed her passion rises.

"If, say, you employ a widely unexplored runic shield combination, like sowulo for example, you tap into the power and the strength of the sun and fortify your shield with properties such as heat and vibrancy. That would be a more intricate spell for your opponent to unravel, would it not?"

"I suppose," Tom smiles in the charming fashion he knows teachers fancy, "but if the point is to select the most powerful of the more unexplored combinations, I'd opt for an isa enforced _Protego_."

"Ice," she comments drily, lifting her eyes skyward. "How surprising. And why, may I ask, would you choose that one?"

"For the properties, of course. I want my shield to chill my opponent, be as strong and solid as ice, and freeze any spells in its path." His eyes brighten, considering when exactly he would have the opportunity to test such a shield out. He'd simply have to make time. "

He feels her powerful aura darken and looks up to see a very displeased Professor Granger staring back at him. Befuddled, he wonders where he mistepped. He must break the silence. He remembers the pathetic fifth year, and he comes to the conclusion that she might enjoy empathizing with those she deems need comfort.

"Sorry, professor," he's quick to offer, "it's only I've found myself in need of such an advantage more times than I'd like to admit." He swallows audibly, eyes widening with practiced innocence. "I can use any additional help I can get."

Tom wonders if he sees pity flick over her coffee colored eyes. He's not sure. He may need to try even harder to break through to her. With most everyone it's so easy, but she's different.

"There—now do you see?" She perks a brow. "That is the type of theory I was looking for. I want my students to think outside the box. It's how we grow, after all."

The dutiful mask of a concerned teacher is back in place and Tom finds himself longing for the passionate witch he only barely got a glimpse of to return. He so seldom has occasion to be swept up in an academic discussion.

"Hurry on now, Mr Riddle," she instructs. "You don't want to be late to your next class."

No. That certainly wouldn't do. Better to be early to hers. He resolves to do so next time and be sure to make their one on one time visits more frequent.

With other women, sexual manipulation is his go-to, but this professor is different. Her sharp mind and sensational ideas require a bit more thought. It seems knowledge and logic rule her. He would endeavor to exploit those weaknesses every chance he gets.

It's important to break her before he disposes of her.

* * *

A brilliant maneuver on his part, Tom had allowed himself to take a hit during his spar with Cassius directly near the end of their duel.

Cassius, to his credit, paled and stilled on the spot, no doubt agonizing about just how Tom would seek his revenge. He needn't worry though, it was all according to plan.

"Oh, Mr Riddle!" Professor Granger abandons the pair of Gryffindor girls she's lecturing and flies to his side, tutting her disapproval along the way. "I said no damaging spells." She bends down to assess the cut and glares at Cassius. "Yes, Mr Nott, a Cutting Hex is considered damaging."

She flicks out her wand with practiced ease from some position under her skirt. Tom works his brain hard to assess just from where she conceals it. "You'll need to see Madam Roberts."

Tom nods, trying to appear brave.

One twist of her wrist and one of the desk she's vanished reappears. Tom of course notes the non-verbal skill on her part.

"But first I need to look at it. Can't send you to the infirmary gushing blood all over the corridor." Her hand closes around his wrist and his mind blanks at the contact as a shiver races down his spine. The professor pauses just for a second and he might almost have missed it if he isn't paying as close attention as he is. "Class dismissed!"

She ushers him to a chair and he follows dutifully, basking in the attention she shows him. The sight of Professor Granger knelt before him takes his mind to all sorts of places. That interesting feeling of want nags at him again. He has a purpose though. He resolves to focus on just that.

Aiming for that part of her that liked to pity others and their misfortunes, he's quick to console her. "Don't fret, Professor," he tries not to flinch when he realizes his tone is belied with desire. "I'm used to being bloodied."

She's looking down, but she swallows and looks up at him. Her eyes flash and he thinks he sees murderous intent. Without even realizing it, he leans forward, tugged to her by some unseen force he's helpless to ignore.

"That's… that's _not_ okay," she grits out and he can tell she's angry but it's not directed at him. "You shouldn't, I mean, there should be… laws in place to prevent such things from happening."

With stark realization he knows she's referring to his status as an orphan and the abuse he has received there.

"You know…" he falters and he's not sure if it's all for sure or because she's really thrown him, "you know about my," his fists clench, "home life?"

She averts her gaze and swallows once more, drawing his attention to the lovely column of her throat. "Yes."

It's all she says and he doesn't probe. He can probably thank Dumbledore for enlightening her.

Spells sprout from her wand and flutter over the open gash, working tightly to seal the open skin.

She looks up at him warmly and he feels… _victorious._ He has long since wanted to be on the receiving end of that smile. He is jealous when others are and he's not. He has always believed he can break through eventually.

Her eyes transfix on his predatory gaze. The desire he feels flares hotly. For a moment, he swears he sees something in her eyes that indicates she feels it too. Such a notion is encouraging. A shiver rocks his frame at the knowledge he can affect her. He can break the impenetrable after all.

What's more, he thinks he's discovered another weakness. Professor Granger likes to fix things. She likes to tackle impossible problems. Maybe her desire extends to people too.

* * *

Tom's in a foul mood.

Just when he believes he's breached Professor Granger's carefully erected walls and decides to attack, she slams them back up again. He knows she holds back when she teaches, so he finally works her up until he's sure he'll get the answer he wants. He requests private tutoring. The extensive knowledge she possesses has to be his. She flat out refuses.

She tells him the curriculum she's teaching the whole class is suitable enough.

He's enraged.

He spends the remainder of class envisioning every position he would fuck her in over that desk she sits perched upon. It tempers his ire minimally. He vows to not come early for their routine meet and greets in a deliberate attempt to punish her.

Yet when Tuesday comes around, he's there.

* * *

He lingers after Slug Club, having noticed the way Slughorn shoots worried glances Professor Granger's way.

Spotting an alcove, he takes refuge there and sure enough can hear their whispered voices as they round the corner. He wonders if he should be alarmed, contriving of ways to hide just so he can spy on the object of his obsessions.

Obsession.

Yes. Professor Granger is like an itch he can't scratch. He wants her, though she too far from reach. He convinces himself that the longing he feels is purely sexual and he just needs to have her once to get her out of his system. To scratch the itch. Then he can siphon the knowledge he wants so badly from her. Their voices interrupt his musings.

"I'm not daft, Hermione."

 _Hermione._ The name echos in his head, sounding forbidden.

"Don't you think I know what those ingredients are for?" Slughorn's voice is laden with concern. "I know what you need them for."

Professor Granger laughs, and even blinded from seeing her face Tom can tell it's forced. "Horace, you needn't worry. I'm perfectly fine."

"You take on way too much," he argues. "An addiction to Dreamless Sleep is no laughing matter."

Their voices fade along with the sound of their footsteps.

Dreamless Sleep? Tom presses his head back into the stone wall and frowns in contemplation. She's becoming curiouser and curiouser. She's clearly been in some sort of trauma… endured some hardship that has produced the sharp-eyed, distrusting, lethal woman she is today. Something twitches in his chest and he puzzles over the unsettling feeling that resides there.

Concern… for her?

No.

Tom clenches his jaw and looks away. He doesn't exactly need her. He certainly doesn't love her. He snorts. Love—he despises the thought of it. Why someone would willfully tether themselves to another person, he was sure he would never know. The notion of love is revolting, no matter how many people testify to its wonder. Those who chose to love are effectively choosing to cripple themselves. Such a state is a weakness, and Tom doesn't tolerate weakness.

What Tom has is an obsession.

To free himself, he must sate it first.

* * *

Arriving at class early becomes somewhat of a ritual.

He enjoys their academic discussions. He considers her theories. He avoids topics he quickly learns are triggers. Subjects such as the dark arts, for example, are regrettably a no go. Tom doesn't understand why, he can tell she's tapped into such magic before. Dark magic has a way of lingering. He suspects she's come to the same conclusion about him. He grins ruefully at the thought of such magic marking him.

Today she encourages them to use non-verbal magic, spending half the class explaining the theory behind it. Tom doesn't know why she wastes her time. The students aren't even close to getting it. Besides, the only way to learn such magic isn't by discussing, but by practicing. He participates in the discussion anyway, exchanging banter with her affectionately. Though he does derive pleasure from such actions, he still of course is acting this way because he needs her to reconsider tutoring him. That is… always the main goal.

But he does enjoy the way she purses her lips when she disagrees or rolls her eyes skyward. Muggle mannerisms, Abraxas calls it. Rosalie Black agrees. Tom finds it refreshing. It is his goal to poke her enough times that the passionate witch has no choice but to come out and play. He's pleased to note that the formerly difficult task is far easier for him to do now.

Strangely, he doesn't entertain thoughts about killing her today.

* * *

"It's this damned ball," she says, trying to explain away her sour mood.

His eyes light with mirth at the sound of her swearing.

A blush stains her cheeks and she ducks her eyes, focusing instead on shuffling the parchment in her hand. "I've somehow been volunteered to oversee decorations, you see. Well, obviously I'm not very keen on it." Her gaze turns distant and she stares off, looking past him. "Useless thing, balls are."

"I'll help you decorate," he offers, only remembering seconds later that he'd successfully and rather cleverly managed to escape Yule Ball duties when asked before. He had blamed it on a vigorous Head Boy schedule and an ambitious selection of courses.

She breathes a sigh of relief. "That would be lovely. We could get it done much quicker that way."

His lips curl at the notion of… decorating. As if he's one of the witches who spend their free periods on etiquette courses. If she notices the slip, she chooses not to comment. Tom decides it doesn't matter anyway.

Time alone with her is worth it.

* * *

It is worth it.

An enlightening afternoon as well. He's again reminded of her magical skill. She has a unique way of calling it to her wand, and ordering her magic to take the form of the spell she wishes to cast. It's flawless and graceful and highly interesting to see firsthand. He notes that she can do rather a lot of spells non-verbally. She doesn't seem cognizant of this— as if it were merely second nature.

He says something and she laughs.

He doesn't even remember what it is he's said. Something nonsensical, he guesses. But the laughter lights up her face and that he does thinks he'll remember. From this close range, dangling next to each other on matching ladders and reaching with their wands to charm faery lights on the trees they'd conjured, he can just make out a splattering of freckles gracing her nose. It's flattering, he decides. She's no raving beauty like say Black's sister, Rosalie, but she's beautiful nonetheless.

It isn't a mistake to volunteer his help, he decides.

They make a good team, working together with speed and efficiency. Tom has a brief fantasy flash through his mind. He imagines working on more projects with her, perhaps at the Ministry. Then they would be equals. Then he would not be her student and she his teacher. He imagines they' make quite a pair. He imagines… meaningless things that don't much matter.

It's when she's reaching up to particularly high branch when he sees her sleeve pull up and a scar flashes before his eyes.

For a moment he's paralyzed still in shock.

There's a word scrawled across her arm. _Mudblood,_ it proclaims loudly for all to hear.

He's suddenly stricken with guilt. He's always rationalized her surname. He's always insisted on connecting her with a magical ancestor. To find out now that it's been a Mudblood he's been obsessing over all this time… his mind races. It again doesn't seem likely that she could achieve all she has. Muggles are as a whole terrible people who can't be bothered to take care of themselves. But she's not a Muggle, he reminds himself. She's actually a rather adapt and capable witch. She's an anomaly as far as Mudbloods go.

Still, he is wary. He wonders who could have done this to her. His guilt and shame transition seamlessly into rage. She has many scars and many ghosts in her past. He decides not to bring the confirmation of her heritage to his Knights. He would much rather keep the information to himself. He needs time to digest it all.

He turns sullen.

She babbles on and he listens quietly, focused on the task at hand but still finding it easy for his thoughts to stray to her despite his recent revelation. His magic is hovering around him as he charms the sparkling ivy to crawl up the columns. It's because of this that he feels her magic brush against his own. He supposes she's doing the same, her magic encompassing her as his does him. He jolts as if shocked by an electric curse. He feels… fire. The fire is addictive. It calls to him. His magic reaches out, yearning for more.

His nostrils flare and his eyes darken as he searches for her, trying to discern if she feels it too. He finds her and she glances away. His magic dims and the moment is gone.

For the first time since she's come into his life he' senses fear.

Tom knows fear when he sees it.

* * *

When he first spots her she's wearing a sleek, silver gown.

Part of her hair is down and flowing to her shoulders. He doesn't think he's ever seen it loose before. Nor has he seen so much skin bare for his hungry eyes to devour. Did he ever classify her as an understated beauty? He takes it back. Only a fool would say so. He sees now that she's taken efforts to hide it, though he doesn't know why.

He forgets his own date. He can't even picture her. Black's little sister, maybe?

It doesn't matter. He moves towards her and feels that familiar pull again—that tug that seems to be connected to his chest. He knows the moment she registers his presence. She stiffens and takes a breath before she turns.

"Mr Riddle," she greets, and he's displeased to see he can't read her. The guard is up and she's not quite smiling.

"You're a vision… Professor." How badly he wants to address her by her first name if only he had the privilege. How badly he wants her to address him by his, an urge highly unusual for him.

"You look lovely as well," she reciprocates, smirk widening. "What fine dress robes."

He deflates and his jaw clenches at the reminder of the borrowed robes he's forced to take from Malfoy. He doesn't like to be reminded of his helplessness. He doesn't have Galleons of his own and has to rely on others for occasions like this. It's a weakness. Tom doesn't like weaknesses.

They exchange more words and then they part. He dances just enough dances to fulfill his social requirements. He isn't one of them— the Purebloods— but he practices their manners flawlessly, as if he were born to it. By now he's had time to learn. If he grips his date's waist too tight, she doesn't complain. He looks down. Rosalie, so it is Black's sister, he remembers. She peers up at him under a thick foliage of lashes with a dazed expression on her face. He looks away and departs from the dance floor.

He watches _her._ Professor Granger dances with the relatively young Muggle Studies professor. They are laughing and talking amicably over something Tom can't hear. He clenches the fragile stem of his glass and it shatters in a storm of crystal. He doesn't even look as he waves his wand and rights the broken glass. He's mastered more non-verbal skills. Would she be proud, he wonders? He watches the duo dance and his lips curl in disdain. The filthy blood-traitor pathetic enough to teach a subject as useless as Muggle Studies and the Queen of Mudbloods herself, the mystery witch no one knows anything about, but Tom has seen the scar. He knows for certain, but chooses not to comment.

For the first time in a while, he entertains thoughts of killing. They aren't directed at her, but rather her partner. The notion of committing murder soothes him.

* * *

"What do you plan on doing after school, Tom?"

Tom. She's taken to calling him by his first name. Now to only refer to her by hers.

He flicks the wispy blue, white light from his wand and watches it dance before his eyes. He hasn't been able to cast a corporeal Patronus, and it vexes him, but when he produced this sort of Patronus residue, a fully realized charm in the making, she reacts with such delight, he can do nothing but keep on trying. He no longer lets it bother him that he can't seem to master the spell. It is light magic, after all. Besides, if he ever encounters dark creatures such as Dementors and Lethifolds—he can always _make them_ do what he wants.

Her question rings in his ears and she waits patiently for his answer whilst smiling encouragingly at his pathetic Patronus attempt—he's stealthily managed to get her to teach him a few spells, before class at least. He thinks about the job he has waiting at Borgin and Burkes. He spent last summer volunteering as a shopboy and proving his worth. It would be an exceptional opportunity to come upon interesting magical artifacts.

She interrupts his private musings, not waiting for his answer.

"You're a brilliant wizard, you know—powerful."

Tom tries not to preen under her praise.

"If you wish for a role of influence, you'd be better at affecting change through the Ministry," she intones matter-of-factly. "The Ministry could use young, brilliant minds as like yourself with fresh ideas."

He considers it. The fantasy of himself and the professor working as a joint effort on some Ministry-sanctioned mission flashes through his brain again, but he dismisses it. He hates the Ministry. The Ministry kept him as a starving and abused orphan, concealing the magical world from him, and along with it any semblance of hope. The Ministry forgot about him.

"It needs to be torn down and rebuilt altogether," he tells her candidly and she shoots him a worried glance. "I mean to say, don't you think it's overflowing with problems?"

She jerks her head in a nod and stares off at something he can't see. She's prone to doing that, he notes.

"You could train me, you know." He stills himself and takes a breath. He hasn't asked again since the first rejection. He's wary of her answer. "Privately, I mean… over the summer. I want to be a duellist, a master duellist like you."

She snorts into her teacup. "I hardly think that'll be appropriate, and I'm _not_ a master duellist."

He shakes his head and tries not to succumb to irritation.

That day in class, they spar. She says he's far too advanced to duel anyone else so she volunteers herself for the job. Their spells clash and collide with a vibrancy of colors that light up the room just as the sound of their spellwork rocks the class off its hinges. She parries and attacks, he sidesteps and reacts, testing her and learning her duelling style.

They both hold back.

Master duellist indeed.

She's quite exceptional… quite sensational… his witch… his enigma…. his obsession.

Later whilst he lays alone in his dorm, he reflects on the advice she's given him. _You'd be better at affecting change through the Ministry_ , she had cautioned. Better… he wracks his brain… better than what? What does she think she knows regarding his plans? The foolish girl. He feels somehow older than her even though he's clearly younger. Her words echo and he feels a glimmer of concern he's hard-pressed to ignore.

Can she be that perceptive?


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I'm really stoked by all the encouragement this little story received. I got to dabble in a new writing style and tried to portray things from one POV instead of two+ which was a lot of fun. I only hate that this is a two-shot. I wish I could expand it more, but I thought on it a while and overall was happy with the ending. There have definitely been some times I've written Tom (and Hermione, for that matter) that I haven't liked very much looking back, and some stories I wish I could take down (but I don't because a handful of people enjoy them), but this characterization of Tom is by far my favorite. His mind is such a fun place to be. I can't wait for the opportunity to write him again.** **I hope you enjoy the ending Xx**

 **Beta love to the lovely Elle Morgan-Black** **—thank you so much!**

 **A big thanks to those that have followed/favorited/left comments on this story—I appreciate the feedback C:**

* * *

They spar again that day.

She nicks his jaw and he grazes her neck at just the spot he wishes to lick and kiss the most. He recalls the duel fondly, playing it back in his head over and over. He used to wonder what her eyes would look like open and lifeless, now he wonders what she'd look like free of constraints, neglecting completely to hold back as she duelled him. He wishes for it more than he's wished for anything. The fire she gets in her eyes when she fights, debates, or duels is unlike anything he's ever seen.

Tom wants to own it.

He roams the halls on his patrol, thinking of her as he often does. His Knights have got off easy this year. Meetings had been fewer, but he still holds their fear and loyalty. He's able to indulge in his fantasy, to concoct various scenarios and play them out in his mind. Tom has always been good at plotting.

As if he's conjured her by his thoughts alone, he spots her wandering the corridor. The day has proven a long one and she's let down her hair—much to his delight— carding her fingers through it. Tom watches the motion with rapt attention. He focuses on her neck and the mark he's left thanks to their intense sparring. She reaches around to rub her shoulder and Tom finds himself wishing it was with his hands she was deriving pleasure from.

She's stunning— a vision in a rumpled skirt and wilted blouse— he's reminded of the ball and the gown she wore. He's reminded of the skin she's tempted him with. He's reminded of her dirty blood and how he _should not_ be feeling this way about her. He thinks about it fleetingly, but only fleetingly. She has an uncanny ability to make him forget what he ought to remember.

Tom is always amazed by her perception, so he shouldn't be surprised when she senses she isn't the only one traversing the corridor after dark. She looks up sharply, large doe eyes unseeing in the darkness. He's concealed by shadows but makes the decision to reveal himself and step into the flickering light of the sconces.

He wants her to see him.

"Students are not to be out of bed after hours," she hisses, her tone irate, but then she recognition flashes over her face, and when she speaks again her voice softens. "Oh, it's just you, Tom."

He bristles.

"What are you doing up?"

"My patrol." He straightens himself importantly, reminding her of the title he's earned. She often seems to forget. "Though I hadn't expected to run into you, Professor." He croons the last word, caressing it over his tongue as his eyes gleam with wicked intent. "I have duties," he motions to his badge, "or don't you recall?"

"No, I remember perfectly," she mutters.

"Well then, do allow me to escort you, Professor?"

"That won't be necessary."

He grits his teeth but keeps up the charming facade that's second nature to him at this point in his Hogwarts career. "Why not?"

"It's nearly graduation," she scoffs, "I know my way around perfectly well," she shifts uncomfortably and the atmosphere changes. Tom senses it the shift but can't peg exactly why it's become more tense. "Besides, I don't want to inconvenience you."

"It won't be an inconvenience," he rushes to assure her. "And I would be remiss to let a witch escort herself back to her chambers unchaperoned."

He thinks he hears her mutter something like ' _bloody archaic values'_ but can't be sure. "What do you take me for—a drunk doxy?" she snarks and Tom hides his amusement. He knows the witch doesn't care for being coddled but he can't resist exploiting any opportunity to be in her company. "Very well," she concedes. "If you must."

"I insist," comes his gallant reply.

"You're grinning the same as if you've mastered some new spell I've taught you," she points out candidly.

Tom detects a hint of liquor— Slughorn's favorite spiced mead, if Tom has any guess— and he blesses his good fortune. The witch has indulged, explaining why she seems to be volunteering information for no reason at all. She catches his smirk and frowns at him, clearly not pleased that he himself his pleased. Perhaps she realizes the disadvantage she's at. How he adores _his_ clever witch.

She stumbles and he catches her in one fluid motion. She rights herself and teeters precariously, on the verge of tripping again. Perhaps the witch is more knackered than he originally thinks. He's reluctant to let her go, content to feel the warmth of her skin. The feel of her skin against his is intoxicating in a peculiar sort of way that makes him want to explore the connection further. He's never been bewitched by such a thing as a _woman's skin_ before.

Whoever has taken the trouble to get her well and truly drunk, he owes them his sincere thanks. If Tom were to be in charge of such a task, however, he would see her drink laced with Veritaserum. He's tried to graze her mind of course, only the lightest of touches. He had been jarred senseless when he discovered her Occlumency walls were up. What could be so important she need hide? A truth elixir would prove itself most handy in this particular situation.

If only.

"You do look lovely tonight," he compliments, admiring the slight sway of her hips when she walks and the delectable curve of her arse. His memorized her curves at this point. The familiar tingle of desire crawls through his limbs, causing him to tense with titillating anticipation.

Her only answer is to glance over her shoulder at him and arch her brow.

"We've always wondered, you know," he plunges on brashly, _much too_ brashly.. "How old are you, really? You seem so young to be so adept at duelling."

She purses her lips in that way he's come to expect, recognizing the gesture and connecting it with the questions she doesn't really wish to answer. "What a highly inappropriate question, Riddle."

Does he detect a sneer when she says his name? Tom feels like he's been gifted a rare and treasured artifact. His prim professor never regards him _rudely_. Clearly she's imbued so much, she takes no issue with voicing her thoughts unfiltered. If the desire to kill her happened to rear itself at that very moment, he could do so and do so effortlessly with not much interference on her part, due to her rather neglectful drop on her inhibitions. She's… _quite_ vulnerable. The desire doesn't surface. Instead, Tom suppresses feelings of a more _protective nature_ , and when he panics over the glaringly obvious lapse on his part, he convinces himself the possessive thoughts aren't there to begin with.

He's unsuccessful.

They come round the third floor tower where her dormitory is and with no warning, she rounds herself on him, turning the intensity of her rage-filled eyes squarely on him. "What do you want?" She throws her hands up in exasperation. "Why are you accosting me, tonight _of all_ nights."

His brows draw together in confusion. "Nothing," he answers quickly— _too quickly_ , before catching himself. "Nothing but the pleasure of your company." His gaze intensifies and she takes a step back, then another, until she's pressed flat against the wall. Tom knows he can make her _flatter_. He advances, the tension between them thick and palpable. "I'm eighteen," he needlessly reminds her. "My birthday was—"

"Five months ago, I know."

His lips press into a thin line. Damn the witch and the knowledge she holds over him. It hasn't been the first time he suspects there's something _more_ lurking beneath the surface. Once more he wishes he can use the advantage of his excellent Legilimency skills, but if he tries to push she will surely notice. He can only speculate as to just how much she's been hiding. He hazards a guess there's been _a lot_. The wicked voice whispering tempting notions of making her pay for her deceit is out full force. But her hands are gripping the stone wall as if seeking purchase in the solidity of it, and her chest is rising and falling in shallow pants. Her eyes burn a hole right through him, scorching him, and he can hardly entertain such ideas now, much less willingly leave her presence.

"Go away, Riddle," her tone brokers no room for argument as if she's used to barking out orders, "school boys do what they're told, don't they?" The smirk tugging on her lips whispers of all things wicked and a battle storms in his chest. He detects a challenge. Tom only answers the challenges he believes he'll win.

He's unsure he can win this one.

"That's what I thought," her hand reaches blindly for the door handle without breaking his gaze, sweeping desperately. "Run along, now. Get back to your patrol."

His attention is brought to the swell and pout of her lips, so full and petulant and begging for attention, Tom cannot help but shrink the gap between them. Her breath halts at the contact, but there's no fear in her eyes— _only hunger_. Tom understands this hunger.

He can kill her another time. Right now, he wants to kiss her.

He's not aware he's moved forward until he gently brushes his lips against hers and he's reveling in the resulting sensations. The shock of her touch is jarring, but much like before, he's compelled to feel _more_ , intoxicated by the feeling and seeking her lips with an urgency that throws him. Intending a short kiss, he surprises himself as he lingers, prolonging the sensations. He suckles on her lip gently, rolling it between his teeth as he coaxes and encourages her mouth to open.

"Tom," she protests, breaking away and pushing her head to the side, "Mr Riddle," she amends, "This is entirely too—"

She struggles with the words, but his lips silence her protests into submission, and to his shock she kisses him back with equal passion—a response nearly automatic in it's urgency. He slips his tongue in her mouth only to have her push it out with her own. He chases it back and this time she tangles her tongue with his, looping an arm around his neck and grabbing a fistful of his dark hair. He notes how wonderful she tastes—a flavor intrinsically her, mixed with Elven wine, he suspects.

She breaks away and murmurs something it takes him seconds to understand. "Twenty-five." But then she's pulling him back and snogging him senseless. Something in her has broke and he knows it. He's achieved his initial goal, but he has no intention of stopping.

Too broken with desire to care about the hands tilting her chin and the tongue forcing hers to rock and swell in tandem with it, she lets Tom take the lead and he's happy to do so.

The feel of her lips surges like electricity through his veins. His hesitance melts in the face of it, replaced by desperation to explore the decadent flavors of her mouth for as long as he can get away with.

Tom has always had a knack for getting away with things.

 _It can't be just a kiss_ , and his sensible mind agrees. He feeds on the forbidden fruit, swept up in the impossibleness of it all, and is not too far gone to note the way her flavor seems to be tailored to him, or the way she moans when he pushes his knee between her legs and grasps her hips, leaning down to mouth her neck over the mark he'd gifted her with earlier.

His mark.

His.

When they break away panting and he stares into frightened eyes flooding with something that looks annoying close to regret, he's not too far gone to note that the obsession hasn't been sated.

No. If anything, it's grown.

* * *

He isn't graced with the pleasure of her company again until several months after graduation.

She visits him at the shop.

She glances around the room and purses her lips in the Granger tell-tale sign of disapproval. He toys with her then—toys with her similarly to the way a kneazle toys with it's prey. It's what she deserves, he rationalizes, for rejecting him all this time—for taking _far too long_ to visit. He doesn't tolerate rejection.

The witch has always been infuriating. He will have to teach her. There's no way around it.

"Hermione," he drawls, even though he's never been given permission to use her given name—she's never granted her permission—but he takes it anyway. She blinks and refocuses. He's pleased to note the blush that stains her cheeks crimson. "Did you come all this way because _you miss me_?"

She fumes. "I happen to be checking on _a student_ , one who's shown the capacity for great potential in the magical world. Obviously I'll want to see you're headed in the right direction," she rubs her temples and presses her eyes closed. "Down the right path," she mutters distractedly. Her jaw clenches and her eyes harden in that way Tom finds endearing. Oh, how he's _missed her_. "It's purely platonic, of course."

"Of course," Tom agrees.

Later when she's above the shop, her back pressed against the wall and he's ravishing her neck, he finds joy in yet another hard fought victory. The witch is _no_ match for him. She may possess wit and talent and skill that may scare off a lesser wizard, but such attributes only attract him—call to him all the more. Tom enjoys a challenge. Such a happenstance is quite rare, he's found.

A hand snakes between her legs and flips up her skirt. His fingers trail up the satin-soft skin of her thigh to whisper over her knickers, before pushing the cloth aside and plunging into her core. She moves against him mindlessly, searching for friction, and he tongues her neck. As his fingers tease, she blabbers insensible things. He breaks away, determined to memorize the lines of her face as they twist in pleasure. She wants him to go faster, but he deprives her.

She presses her palm against the inky green of his shirt. He wonders if she feels the eratic pounding of his heartbeat. He knows he hasn't been so wholly aware of his surroundings since he's cut his last horcrux.

Something about this moment, wrapped up in her, seems momentous. It's wrong and unsettling, the turmoil he feels. Her blood is impure and he shouldn't be allowing this to happen. He somehow wants to punish her for being the source of his troubles, but he merely contents himself with nipping at her lips instead. Her lashes flutter, coffee colored eyes lifting up to stare intently.

Perhaps she thought she would come here and gloat over him. Perhaps she meant to rub it in his face that he was a lowly shopboy and still undeserving of her attentions because he hasn't lowered himself to work under the restrictive and convoluted politics of the Ministry.

She has missed the larger picture. She has missed the _real potential_. He will show her he's bound to greater things than that.

Tugging his collar, she pulls him back down to her. His fingers ease from her hips and seek the fabric of her skirt, tugging at the various layers which separate them. She exhales a shaky breath and he throbs harder still. He presses himself between the slopes of her thighs and she writhes in his grasp.

He smirks at her desperation and her hooded eyes catch the action. Gritting her teeth, she palms his erection and his smirk vanishes as his jaw falls open with a groan. When he feels her squeeze him, his face twists in pure pleasure. It takes him several seconds before he remembers he has her at a similar advantage.

From then on, it's a battle for dominance as they both endeavor to break the other first.

He works her into a frenzy, struggling to gain the upper hand. His skillful fingers play her like a complicated composition, somehow finding just what makes her writhe and moan the most even though her actions cause the slate of his mind to go blissfully blank.

Lunging forwards, he pulls her towards him and sears his lips to hers, sliding his tongue up against hers with confounding desperation. The need plaguing his skin can't be ignored. Her clever hand works and pleasures him to the very brink of breaking. Tom knows he can easily pin her hands, but it's funner this way.

He appreciates the challenge and she appreciates the project.

He tells her all the wicked things he wants to do to her.

"That's foul Tom," she admonishes. "That's so—"

He sucks in a breath of air. "It makes you wet, doesn't it?"

Her answering yelp dissolves around a moan when he palms the mounds of her chest. She's insatiable. The lust he feels for her blooms warmth low in his abdomen. She knows he's dangerous, but it doesn't scare her away, and the realization only arouses him more. He wants to devour her, and he suspects she wants it just as badly. She melts into the wall and they both need air. He breaks away, scraping his teeth against her pulse point. He buries his head in her neck, mouthing her thoughtlessly. Every whimper from her mouth he counts as a personal triumph. She unravels for him, and he whispers words of encouragement as his tongue moves along her skin in a frenzy. He doesn't stop until she's dissolving and shattering. His mind buzzes from being so painfully hard. The sound of her feral moans is music to his ears. He wants to watch and hear it again _and again_.

She falls limp in his arms. Another victory.

Tom doesn't break until he's long since sheathed himself in her heat. He somehow expects she'll change her mind, but she doesn't and he's pleased. They move to the bed and it rocks as he shifts her. If she fears the feral hunger evident on his face, she doesn't show it. He laps at her breasts— tonguing one rosy, pert nipple— his arousal seeks her entrance desperately as she arches her chest up to meet him. Need explodes in his chest and he's unable to tease her further. With an animalistic sound, he spreads and aligns himself. She bucks her hips in encouragement. He plunges into her with a growl of ownership.

She shivers and his movements hasten to a furious pace. Her core tightens and flutters around him and he feels himself drown in pleasure. Sounds of delight escape her throat and he swallows them. Magic thrums through his body as it tangles and rocks with hers. She looks tormented and he feels victorious at being the source of that torturous expression. Still, a part of him wants her to remember their time fondly, hoping the witch would understand she was his and return to him for more. Dispelling the troublesome thoughts, he presses his thumb above the juncture of her thighs. Her nails dig into the smooth skin of his back and her body convulses.

A shuddering wave of heat moves through him. She meets each ugent thrust with equal fervancy. The volume of his desire builds into a crescendo of need and want. He yearns so sharply, he's blinded by it. Her pleasure assaults her and a scream tears through her throat a second time as her climax rocks through her.

She clenches and throbs over him and his mind splits. His nerves dance with a magical fervency, overcome by sensation, and then he's groaning his release. For once his mind goes so silent and he feels peace.

He collapses beside her, and tugs her to his side. He wants her close. If she had hopes of making a quick escape, she won't be making it yet.

When he awakes, it's to the light brush of her fingertips soothing down his bare back. Her touch feels like a powerful Calming Draught and he pauses just long enough to be surprised she doesn't have a wand to his throat.

"I'll train you," she concedes, and just like that it's as if he's been hit with an _Ennerviate._ "But… there are… conditions."

Tom is suspicious but endeavors to say whatever he needs to to get what he wants. The only downside he can anticipate from the deal is once he gleans all the knowledge he can, there's once again the dilemma of what to do with her. He still wants the position, but he's not sure what he wants more.

A funny feeling blossoms in his chest— regret— he surmises. He needs to become the Dark Arts instructor, all his plans are contingent on it. It seems he has no choice.

"You can always just ask me to vacate the teaching post," Hermione tells him logically.

A sound solution, he agrees, one that would yield _far more_ pleasing results but—wait, _what_ did she say?

In record time, it's suddenly he who has a wand to her throat. "Explain," comes the rapid demand. His free hand wraps around her neck and squeezes, just light enough for her to barely manage words. He wonders if she's a powerful Legilimens. She must be, and he curses himself for underestimating her even while a part of him reminds him that he's obsessively held her up on a pedestal since the beginning.

She doesn't make a single move in her defense, even though Tom knows she's capable of defending herself. It gives him pause. She hasn't turned him in yet, maybe she is on his side. The next words out of her mouth cause his blood to run cold.

"There are other ways to live forever besides fashioning horcruxes, you know."

Tom is thrown. Such a foul word on her tongue. His suspicions of her being more than meet the eye yield truth, but extend far greater than he can have imagined. He stills and gapes at her. Then curses himself for staring—he doesn't gape! His fingers tighten around his wand and flex over her throat.

The witch doesn't seem bothered in the least by the wand poised fatally to her pulse point. She grins ruefully and her eyes sparkle with a mischief he doesn't understand, as if she somehow has the drop on him. "I've _seen it_ ," she tells him cryptically. "I see where you err. Let me help you."

Seen it… seen it where? In a crystal ball? Via tessomancy? In the stars? A seer, he deduces. Thoughts of killing her disintegrate. She may be a baffling enigma, but she's _his enigma_.

"I'm listening," he says with an air of flippantness that uncharacteristically doesn't quite reach his eyes.

She speaks, and like so many other occasions, he's riveted. His eyes rake over her form, still naked in his bed. Fierce possessiveness wells in his chest as he humors her, listening at the same time that he's plotting.

He has claimed her. She is special. Her passion rises when she speaks and with it his own temper ebbs. And if she were to prove a disappointment? He smirks. He can always deliberate on her fate another time.

Somehow, he doubts he will come to regret keeping her.


End file.
